


You're Not As ___________ As You Think

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [113]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Mpreg, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, The Fuck Chair, Voyeurism, foot stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: collected Twissy prompt fills, mostly irredeemable filth. featuring Vault Porn and nonbinary!12





	1. Head in the Ceiling Fan

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: what about twissy with Missy having a bit (hah "bit") of a biting kink?

Missy’s got the Doctor where she wants them.

Inside the vault, for one, because isn’t it nice to know how easy it would be to trap them here with her? The chronal locks could be fiddled with to distort it into a very long engagement; the variety of jury-rigged weapons she’s constructed in periods of extreme boredom would be enough to kill them.

(That’s the most delicious thought of all: killing and remaking the Doctor exactly as she liked. Oh, she could ruin them, she truly could.)

On her bed, for two; not at the piano or in amongst the plumbing fixing imaginary leaks or held at a safe distance, a table between the two of them. No pretense, no excuses, no barriers. Very little in the way of clothing.

(She thinks again about how easy it would be to kill the Doctor. She won’t, of course, not like this. It is a lovely daydream, though.)

Here, thirdly. In this head-space, this position of surrender and self-loathing. Here, undone, so beautifully eager to be hurt. It’s enough to make an old-fashioned woman like herself swoon.

They’re squirming below her, pulling away - a show, of course, not deliberate enough to count. She bears down. Claws out, teeth bared. She kisses their neck, sucking at their skin and then nipping, just a bit, just a hint, before clamping down. Almost, not quite, hard enough to draw blood.

Rassilon, the way they shudder. Good enough to eat, really.

“Forget the takeaway next time,” she murmurs, close to their ear.

“You have your creature comforts, I have mine,” they grind out. Trying valiantly not to buck under her touch.

It’s part of their game, of course; the Doctor has to pretend not to want this. Still, it would be very nice, even if just as a casual treat, for them to fully embrace their more eager, wanton tendencies. The Doctor as unrepentant slut, there’s a mental image to save for a rainy day.

She bites them again, a few inches lower. And lower, and lower: parting their rumpled shirt, drawing a line downward. Red marks and scratch-marks, the barest soupcon of blood. Their cock hardening, straining against their belly. The more unrelenting she is - the more daring and possessing of a particular dramatic flair - the more charmingly, dumbly enthusiastic it is. She likes that.

(This particular incarnation seems to have a less than usual personal interest in their apparatus, ‘usual’ in itself being quite low; she’s half-convinced they had it installed just for her. They are awfully fun to play with, it’s the one thing she misses from her old kit.)

“I could kill you,” she says. She’s been thinking about that a lot, and it’s only fair to share. “Bleed you dry. Choke you out.” She tickles their balls with a well-sharpened fingernail, enjoying their jerk-flinch away. And their return. “Given some time, I think I could drown you. Or shoot you. Or simply fuck you to death.”

The squirming again, the faux attempt at breaking free. They love this, oh do they love this. “Imagine regenerating while fucking. How sublime that must be. To be filled up arse and mouth and then split apart. The ecstasy, the freedom. You think you’ve got pain and pleasure mixed up bad, imagine what that’s like.”

They might be saying something, or thinking they’re saying something; all she can hear is the pounding of their hearts, the ragged breathing. The psychic edge of them buzzing against her. They’re resisting the impulse to pull her hair, this time. Good boy, lesson learnt.

Nothing like a blowjob with teeth, is one of her many mottos. “I could bite your cock off,” she says, conversationally. She demonstrates the general positioning of that, teeth scraping against foreskin.

She pulls back, wiping her mouth off delicately. Props herself up, chin in hand, her elbow digging into the Doctor’s belly. “Not gonna,” she clarifies, bumping her forefinger over their ribs. “I could do. But I won’t. If you go, your man takes over, and then I really will be here for a thousand years. I’ll settle for making you cry. Which, oh, there you go.”

She kisses them gently on the lips, and grins, and squeezes their balls until they scream. Even if this does turn out to be a thousand-year engagement, time flies when you’re having fun.


	2. If fucking up feels right, then fuck it up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Twissy, piano, vault.

Missy’s been practicing something avant-garde, the past few weeks. Repeated phrases, iterations, or just plain noise. Nothing random, a particular intent in the keys struck, even if the Doctor can’t follow along.

They’ve been listening, through the wall. The dissonant chord, the minor key, the riff on a Brill Building tune. “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” dismantled, built back up into something awful and reproaching and ominous. 30 years in captivity, what do they expect, a fanfare? 

They reach behind them, from where they’re crumpled on the floor - they reach back and knock on the vault door and say “D'you know “Son of a Preacher Man”?“

A drawn-out, heavy silence. The implied ironic shrug.

"Or how ‘bout "Walk On By”. Or any song I can play. Funkadelic, you know them at all? Or the Buzzcocks?“

They settle back into the silence, trying to find a comfortable spot. "Can I come in?” they ask, quietly.

No answer, again, but the lack of response feels different this time. They drag themselves to their feet and press their forehead against the vault door and hope hard until it finally opens, slow and resolute.

 

 

She’s at the piano, striking a pose. Strung out on something or other, maybe just herself. The Doctor does their best to swagger in, guitar slung around their waist. Something to do with their hands, at least, finding places to hesitate on the fret board. A riff rattled off.

“I’m not much into rock and roll,” she says quickly. “Or Tin Pan Alley pop, either. It’s all about that old baroque stuff, you know. The over-educated panic of beseeching a god who doesn’t know your name.” Her fingers flit along the keyboard, an anxious questioning phrase.

“You’re lying,” the Doctor says. “You’re always lying. You were made alongside me. And you know what that means?”

Missy shrugs; the Doctor squawks out a dissonant feedback-heavy chord and grins widely. “You like punk rock too. C'mon, let’s make a mistake.”

She raises her eyebrows; the Doctor raises theirs; there’s kind of a skirmish in between them. Circle pit, elbows up. The TARDIS dutifully drops the needle on a record, something loud and fuck-off obnoxious. Missy slams the Doctor up against the wall, hard enough to hurt.

“This what you want? What you’ve been missing?” She’s got her hands down rough in their trousers, guitar discarded on the floor still humming.

“Hnf,” the Doctor replies noncommittally, legs gone shaky and hands searching for purchase. A bad decision, gone for broke. They wind up on the ground, pants around their ankles.

Missy takes their jaw in her hands and squeezes, almost affectionately. “You’re too easy, you know that?”

“Knew you still know to cause a ruckus” they say, sweating, crusted-up in the dirt of the floor here, the fifty years of dust. “I’ll stop you, don’t worry, I still have - oh - the upper hand.”

“Of course,” she says, fingers prying into their mouth, other hand between their legs, nearby but not quite touching their cock (which is currently pitching a hell of a two-person tent). Watching them squirm in the filth, all muddy knees and wayward hair.

“C’mon,” she says. Leaning into them, minor key, major key, the dissonant chord, the steady drum beat, “C’mon.” She can play them easy as any piece of music, even after all these years. They moan messy, achingly; she flexes and stretches her fingers, in preparation for something truly avant-garde.


	3. Interiors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Zabbers, who prompted: Koschei and "little girl" (as Missy describes them) Thete -- "in darkness we are revealed"

A rock to the head of the enemy and Theta face-down in the dirt, breathing hard. The river rushing along nearby.

“Thanks,” Koschei says distantly.

Theta thinks about, maybe, dying. About regenerating right here and right now, the past split off, just the future to deal with. About being anything other than what she is. Which is a girl, on the banks of the river, with a rock in her hands.

And the rock feels more right than the ‘her’. Throw one of these two things away, probably.

* * *

The loom had shunted Theta out as what Lungbarrow thought it needed. Which is to say: female, upholding the matrilineal tradition. The strength of the House, the backbone. Which was fine, objectively, but. Subjectively.

“I don’t wanna be here,” Thete says.

Koschei nods. Reasonable, of course, considering the two of them had just killed someone.

“And I’m not - ” she pauses. Or they, or he, one of those. “Not much of a girl, I think.” Like, a murderer for sure, but not a girl. Murderer feels less bad, bad as it is. And it’s bad, very bad, which was part of the reason Thete is very willing to air all secrets. So there it is, his future identity.

“Not a girl,” he repeats. Or they, or one of those. “Not anymore. And not really a boy. Maybe more that than the other. Dunno.”

Koschei stares at them. “Okay,” he says. He scootscloser to Thete, arm wrapping around her (their) (his) back. “Your first regeneration, that’s deciding what you want to be, yeah?”

The CIA has already laid claim to Koschei’s first regeneration but Theta is virgin territory. Self-determined, a normal regular Gallifreyan. Up to them, what comes next. 

 

* * *

Thete in the dirt with a rock in her (their) (his) hand and everything was awful but the one familiar normal thing is this, Thete in Koschei’s arms, as it should be. The two of them in lockstep.

And then, of course, it all goes to shit, because regardless of identity Thete has just _killed somebody_ and it doesn’t so much matter, obviously, who you are if you are committing a crime, like as a Prydonian at that point you’re not so much you or your house as you are just a Criminal and - anyway.

 

* * *

A few thousand years later, Thete is still a boy (though he’s - they’re - somewhat advanced in age, ‘man’ feels wrong but logically that should be the correct term) and Koshei has since woken from death to find themselves in a body and mind that are much more aligned with femininity than before. A woman, then, okay. Missy, sure, not the Master anymore. Still Koschei, though, and Thete’s still Thete. The universe is ending, it’s Koschei’s fault; so it goes.

“I know you,” she says, to the boy Thete still is. “I’ve always known what you are.”

“An idiot,  yeah.”

“The traditional Time Lord alignments: good, bad, chaotic, lawful, male, female, other, idiot.” She flips him finger-guns which slide into a two-finger salute.

“Fuck you too,” he says, sliding the vault door closed.

“Til next time.”

“Next time, yeah,” he says, hiding behind the bulk of the door.

Then it’s closed, fully, and she’s alone here, no one else to help figure out how to break herself free. Same as it ever was. She leans her head against the door, and checks her makeup - still on point - and gets to work picking the lock.


	4. Wind Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: twissy mpreg

There’s a variety of things to pee on. Granted, they probably don’t work at all in this situation, but the Doctor pees on them anyway. In the interest of completion and due dilligence.

The pee-things and the TARDIS and the Doctor’s uncertain emotional state/current inability to button their trousers are all agreeing that they’re carrying something around, in there.

And also the thing has something to say for itself, but that’s a bit too much to think about right now.

“Is it mine?” Missy asks, oddly hopefully. “Or - sorry, I’m assuming you haven’t just gotten slightly fat. Which would be fine, but. Well. You know. Gallifrey being where it is. If you were - er. _With child_. That would be something, surely.”

The Doctor poses for the mirror, turns to profile, considers themself. “Not a food baby,” they decide. “Baby-baby. I can feel them.”

“Plus some extra,” Missy says, hand cupping the swell of their belly, pinching gently.

“Wait. Why me and not you? If we did, you know, the thing, in that way.”

“Because I’m a girl and you’re the boy. Or the other way around. You’re much more nurturing than I am, anyway. If it were me it’d already be dead.”

“That’s nice,” they say. “Very encouraging. Thanks for that.”

“No problem.” She keeps her hand on their stomach, sliding up, bristling against the slight trail of hair. “So where’s it gonna come out?”

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Like is it an arse-baby situation or do we need to cut you open?”

“Neither, preferably.”

“Through the mouth, then? You just vomit up the future of Gallifrey?”

“Please stop.”

She tweaks their nipples, honk-honk. “It’s coming out one way or another.”

The Doctor shudders.

“Rassilon, I do like you like this. All big and sensitive and fertile and confused and scared about how your body works. You’re delicious, you know that?”

“I’m bloated and uncomfortable and very much not prepared to be a parent,” they say. “And they’re time-sensitive - right? I dunno when I am, this thing keeps bouncing me around. It’s awful.”

“It’s the miracle of life,” she says. She pats them on the belly. “Been a while since we’ve been parents.”

“I’m not enjoying the re-tread.”

“But I am.” She pats them again. “The future of Gallifrey, both of us in one neat little package. It’s lovely.”

“It’s garbage. I hate this.”

“Shh,” she says, leaning down to press a kiss against the small creature kicking back. “Life is beautiful, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Fuck off,” they reply, squirming.

“Too late.” She kisses their belly again, salutes the Thing Within, then leans back, grinning. “Mount up, Dad, get ready. I’m about to fuck you senseless. Get you _extra_ pregnant. Gallifrey rises, hey?”

The Doctor sighs, and capitulates.


	5. Space Jam (the Return)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: twissy where they get as sexual as they can get with that vault invisible barrier between em

It’s one of those nights, for both of them. A want or a need or a question, and all the stars in the sky hanging heavy above them. All the locks set. Or opened, and then reset.

But the two of them, here now.

“I’ve thought about what you said.” The Doctor meanders around the cell, boots dragging in the dust.

Missy raises an eyebrow. “About the moonbounce? Or the attack kittens? Or-”

“About why I come here,” the Doctor interrupts. They stop meandering. Hands in pockets, shoulders slumped.

Missy uncurls away from the piano, sliding neatly and gracefully into place onto the bench. “Which is.”

The Doctor huffs out a laugh, bites their lip. “Because I’m lonely.”

“Wasn’t exactly how I phrased it.” She smooths down the front of her skirt, taps her hair into (precarious) place.

“Because I…want, um.” A slow exhale, the hands in their pockets halfway to China.

Missy swoops up and strides to the barrier, hands and face pressed against the electric buzz. “You dirty boy.”

The Doctor laughs again, properly this time, and flops down onto the armchair. Like _maybe_ like _sure_ like _yes, okay, and what of it?_

Missy curls her fingers into fists, lingering against the wall. “You’ve gone native. All these silly humans and their bizarre mating rituals. You always did follow the sound of the explosion. So.” She backs away, twirling a neat circle around the piano.

“So.”

“Here we are. Tell me, what is it you want?” Posed, artfully, against the keys.

“I…” The Doctor swallows, jaw working hard against whatever it is that’s caught in their throat.

“I’ll tell you what you want. It’s for me to tell you what you want. D'you see what I did there? It’s a joke, we like jokes. Now. Unbutton your trousers.”

The Doctor starts, squirms. “Missy - ”

“The faux-prudish foreplay is my least favorite part.” She settles back down on the bench, legs crossed primly at the ankle. “I mean, I like it, but not top-five. Belt unhooked, trousers undone, I want you deshabille and eager.”

After a careful pause, the Doctor complies. Belt, button, the zipper slid down slow. Teeth parting.

Doing her fair share: Missy delicately shucks off her outer layers, unlaces the corset. Just in dainty underthings, now, all assets on full display. She’s quite proud of them. The Doctor really should be taking notice.

“Is this what you like? All human-shaped. Breasts, arse, et cetera. Or is it something - ” She dives through, the physic pulse, flicking the proverbial of the Doctor. “- Else.”

They flinch, squirm. “If I said ‘both’.”

“Then you’d be just where I wanted,” she says, crossing her legs harder. “Now touch yourself.”

“I am touching - ”

“Get yer cock out and fuckin’ grab it,” she growls, shifting.

A ragged inhaled breath, and a pause, and the Doctor leans back in the armchair.

“Go on.”

They go on, hand on their cock, a choked moan. Something theatrical about it but for House and Home and Rassilon, does she still appreciate it. An appealing flush in their face, the specifics of their thumb brushing the tip of where humans place their arousal. Some of them, anyway.

“The bastard son and/or daughter of Gallifrey, unkempt and ashamed. For me. As it should be. Go harder.”

They comply. Hand rough on themself, breathing shaky. Missy leans into the pain/exit/power buzz of the wall, revels in it. Revels in their surrender.

“You always were easy,” she says, steadying herself. “And now even easier still. You’re gonna come for me, now.”

The Doctor shudders. Slipshod and messy and all bucking hips and a quiet but undeniable whine. An assortment of hands and cocks flexing out and then snapping back in, to two singular monsters in a vault. The timeline is complaining.

“Like the humans do,” she amends, distastefully. She puts the corset back on, struggling just a touch with the clasps. “Turn these walls off, we could do it right. Mano y mano, brain to brain. You’re still too scared for that, though, aren’t you.”

“I’m reasonably cautious,” they say, voice raspy. Attempting to right themselves from the fuck-slump they’re currently in.

“Unfortunately, yes.” She leans back against the piano, arms spread wide. “Now tuck yourself back in, we have work to do. Tell me about your monster du jour. Friars, was it?”


	6. The Shaking Of Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: twissy, blind sex in the vault

The Doctor takes their glasses off, once inside the vault. They know the general layout. All the glasses have to say is baseball-card stats. And they can listen, can feel this. Works better.

Missy is flanking, aiming for a misdirect. Out of all the things the Doctor was ever bad at, this is not one of them. The object moving through space and time, if you need to see it to track it you’ve already lost.

“Still got it, then, Thete.” She slows by the piano, plinks a few keys. A tease, a trap assured of its prey.

“Don’t call me that,” they say. Pausing in front of where she is, or the edge of her. 

“Granted, it is a shame. All this work I’ve put in and now you can’t appreciate it properly.” She’s moving closer. All floral perfume and angry, dissonant buzz.

“But it does focus your attention, for once,” she says. Low, raspy. She’s close. “Like in the old days.”

The old days, when all they could taste was the threat of her, the incoming disaster. Time fracturing around them. Young and dumb and fingers on the pulse of it all. Of them both. The Doctor steps forward.

“Can you feel it?” Missy whispers. Palms flat on the Doctor’s chest, fingers working their way under their jacket, shirt. “You and me, here.”

“Don’t have heightened senses, if that’s what you mean,” the Doctor says. Swaying against her touch.

“Well. This isn’t a comic book, so no, not what I mean. I would appreciate more comic books, though, I do get so terribly bored here.”

_You know what I mean_ , she means. The Doctor leans in, breathes in. They know what she means. This, this thing. The barrier of her, of them; where they meet, outside the world. Two cosmic things on forced vacation.

The Doctor leans in. Wool under their hands, and Koschei under that - don’t call her that. Warm skin, goosebumped, shivering. Costumes fumbled off. They can feel the burred, buzzing edges of her. A certain nostalgia, an old familiarity. A blurring into. A breath taken, shared, and exhaled. Their hands shaking on her, and her shaking under their touch. Just like the old days. Like maybe they’re gonna go steal a TARDIS, like maybe they’ll just come hard and then clean up and plot their escape.

Some things don’t change. Some things you can’t shake. She sighs as they slide their hand between her thighs; they scrunch their eyes up tight, against the dark. Sound and sense and time falling away. The important things. The Doctor wonders what she looks like, like this. They try to remember what that was like.

The two of them in a room and in bad circumstances and all the confusion in the universe. They still don’t know how to look at each other. The Doctor leans in and flexes their hand. Fingers to clit. She’s shaking, hands squeezing their shoulders. The world falling away, far far away from this particular bad decision. She’s coming, probably. In one of these points in time, she’s coming: their hands behind her knees, that old sensitive spot, and up to her face, the smile under their fingers.

Time shudders around them. She shudders around them. Things stop. The world flickers, and it’s just the two of them. As they’ve always been. If you know someone’s appearance is a disguise, do you really need to see it? They lean into her. Time drawls out.

“Touch me,” she says. They say. “Me-me, please, just-”

The Doctor goes in, hand to skin to below the skin. All of their everything antsy and flickering. All of what they are there, just there, eager and hungry. The timeline righting itself around them. The Doctor dives back in. A bad decision, probably, but is there anyone bearing witness aside from the two of them? Probably not, so fuck it. Missy is so very pretty when she comes, visuals not required. YOLO, etc. No one’s stopping them, might as well go for broke.


	7. Where Your Night Often Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Missy in the Vault in the early days and Twelve not trusting her so having to 'assist' her with every basic task

It’s both terrifying and superbly annoying, being responsible for someone else. The Doctor hadn’t been a good father and only rarely a decent guardian and now here they are. Jailer, or savior, or both. It doesn’t suit them.

Missy isn’t helping. Oh, you’re to watch over me, then? Watch _this_. (Something banal, or something exasperating, or something forbidden, taboo. Always framed as a dare.)

 

 

The first day, or night, it’s simple enough. Ish.

“I’m filthy,” she announces. “Sweaty and dusty and incredibly gross. I almost just died, for heaven’s sake. Is there a bathtub in this prison?”

There is. The Doctor gestures to the washroom; she flounces off, disrobing, and they follow. They run the bath for her, even; eyes averted, the steam billowing, her body in their peripheral vision as she sinks under the bubbles. They lean against the edge of the sink, not looking as she scrubs herself down, singing some dramatic opera piece in a passable soprano.

Doesn’t mean anything. They’re just doing their due diligence.

 

 

The fifth night, or day, she’s testing boundaries. Less simple. She disrobes, again, but this time heads for the bed. Lies down, moans theatrically as she touches herself.

“At least now I know where to clean up afterwards,” she says, breath hitching.

The Doctor bolts for the exit, slams the door shut, keys in the lock code and slides down to the floor. They can hear her, still. Can feel her. That is an intentional part of the vault’s design, after all. They’re already regretting it.

 

 

The twentieth day, night, whenever - twentieth recognizably separate chunk of time - the Doctor strides in and drops a bag of takeaway onto the table. Missy’s in her cell, sitting on the floor cross-legged.

“Figured you might be hungry,” they say, pulling out the styrofoam boxes, plastic utensils, paper napkins. “Or bored, at least.”

“Just because you’re obsessed with human food doesn’t mean we’re all so hedonistic,” she says. She stands up, hands hovering a hair’s-breadth from the barrier.

“Sorry, I’ll have compressed nutritional bars in soon. Right now it’s fish and chips. You can come out and join me.” They wipe the grease off on their coat, staring her down.

She takes a deep breath and steps through. Face like she was half-expecting it to kill her.

“That’s not period-appropriate,” she says, motioning at the food.

“My favorite chippy reached its peak in 2006. Needs must.” They tuck a napkin into the collar of their shirt and dig in with forced enthusiasm.

Missy sits down primly and watches. “You could install a kitchen,” she says, after a while. “Buy the groceries, let me do the rest. I’m not especially interested in relying on your awful, childish taste in food. Another few weeks of this and I’ll be dead of a double heart attack.”

“Knowing you, you’ll figure out how to make a bomb out of potatoes, a stalk of celery, and a box of salt.” Talking with their mouth full.

“I’d need carrots and onions for a proper mire-poix and/or explosion,” she says. She picks at her portion, pushing a chip around with another chip.

“Right. Later, maybe, hey? After we - after we settle down a bit.” They swallow, and pick up another piece of cod, more as prop than anything else.

 

 

The whatever whenever of the fuck it - later on than the before, anyway - Missy’s banging on the door, yelling. As many insults as she can think of, in all colors of the rainbow. The Doctor stands slumped, back against the vault door. On the other side, always on the other side.

_Come in and face me, you coward_ , she shouts. Hard, desperate, angry.

They consider, and reconsider, and then stop thinking entirely. They come in. They face her.

“What now,” they say. Tired but also eager, in spite of themself.

“I’m bored. I’m antsy. I want to do something.” She flounces away, giving them a lingering glance as she goes. Up-down, loaded. “I want to break things. Hurt things. I want _out_.”

“You can’t get out,” the Doctor says mildly.

“Right. Of course. I’m sacrificing half a millennia of my existence to assuage your guilt. How could I possibly forget.” She moves closer to the Doctor, and closer still; they circle around each other warily.

“Everything I want must come from you. Everything I need is dependent on your benevolence.” She puts her hand on their chest, between their hearts. “So I submit, Doctor. My life is in your hands. My death, also. My petit mort-”

The Doctor steps back abruptly. “The kitchen might take a while,” they say, “but I think I can get you a vibrator within the day. For - to take care of that.”

“Who said that’s what I want?”

The Doctor rolls their eyes, and leaves swiftly.

 

 

Day whatever and then some, they’re on the floor again, back against the vault. They can hear her. How this thing was designed, an easy intuitive surveillance. The motor-whine and her moans and the…the rest of it. She could make a bomb out of that thing, they’re just doing their due diligence listening in. They press their hand against the vault door, regulating their breathing. She’ll be safe to leave alone soon enough. No sense rushing things, though.


	8. Re-Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Missy/Missy Foot fetish fic (spoilers: i missed the mark)

The outer defenses of the vault are a hodge-podge, a horrible mess of a hackjob that succeeds primarily because it makes spectacularly unexpected mistakes. A competent foe, Missy can beat. The Doctor is an idiot and thereby bungles into a bizarre draw-state filled with junk locks so ineptly coded it might as well be a whole new language. Missy has not been able to break through the outer door, the few times she’s been strong enough to witness its monstrosity.

The inner defenses, though. Very clean, very organized, very chic. Just one small box with neatly-written code, all according to standards. Readable, understandable, easily defeated. The glass walls help, as well, given the difficulty of hooking a surveillance program into the Fatality Index API. She does wonder whether ‘set visibility = true’ was the death-dealers’ doing, or the Doctor’s. Theta always did like to watch.

The vault inside the vault was written specifically to contain a Time Lord. All they are, all they’ve been or will be. Mistress, Master, beard or no beard, all facets reflected back by the quartz glass. The vault inside the vault is ready and willing to receive an infinity of her. It expects her, all of her. Doubled and tripled and folded back in on herself. Koschei, in the vault, with a piano: forever and always and all of her here.

It reflects her reflections. So it’s easy enough, then, to press one hand to the glass, let slip just a small saucy sneak-peak of herself, a bared ankle: the gold of her against the quartz, now turned to a mirror, and there’s a time-shudder and a tremor along the floorboards. And she’s twice as likely to break free, now.

“You’re me,” she says, circling around her new bunkmate.

“I’m you,” the other her confirms.

“So you know what I’m doing.”

Missy rolls her eyes. “Of course. You’re me. And our memory is impeccable.”

“I did come first, though, I am the original,” Missy says. “You’re the reflection.”

“Missy Mark I, always scrabbling to retain her relevancy and importance - ”

“I made you five seconds ago - ”

“Our reflections in the mirror always look more right to us than how we actually look,” Missy II says.

The quartz fades back to crystal-clear. The outer walls visible, the shadows and artificial sunlight filtering through windows to nothing. Boundaries, the barbed-wire fence outside the gaol.

“If we could put this aside, for now, and concentrate. We don’t have long. The weak point - ”

“You’ve already exploited it. Five minutes ago. Or ten minutes away. Or one of those, I haven’t really been keeping track.” Missy II inspects her fingernails.

“Ah.” Missy Prime sits down at the piano, plunking out a few dissonant notes. “So we have time. And you know.”

“What you want? Yes, of course.” Missy II sweeps in close, petticoats rustling. “You want that garbage fire kneeling before you.” Her hands on Missy’s calves, squeezing gently, sliding down. “But Thete isn’t here yet. I am. And it’s never an insult to bow before a queen.” She slides Missy’s heels off, hands cupping the arch of one foot, then the other. Lips pressed to dainty, painted toes.

“I hate these fucking shoes,” Missy says, choking on certain syllables when Missy II digs into pressure points.

“Yes. I know. But they make our arse look fantastic.” Her mouth poised open and wet, she winks exaggeratedly before sucking at the red lines on the skin of her foot. Hands on heels, squeezing hard.

The weak spot, of course, it’s so obvious. A variable changed, hey presto. The quartz shudders, reflects. Missy leans back against the piano keyboard, a few dissonant notes sounded out. Her also-was, her and-then prostrate before her, gently caressing her ankles.

“Have we considered going barefoot? Both for comfort and because we are - quite lovely, down here.”

Missy kicks, narrowly and intentionally missing Missy II’s face. “Shut up and massage.”

Missy II salutes, bends back down. Yourself as you weren’t, or as you couldn’t be. Might as well get them to give you a pedicure.


	9. Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Missy/Simm!Master/Twelfth Doctor threesome

It could have happened a different way. This was the only thing that could have happened, but it could have happened differently. A zig for a zag, another branch in the tree, some particular path along the fishermen’s net bringing time up, silvery and slippery, from the depths in the dead of night. That one movie with Gwyneth Paltrow. Like that.

There’s a world, maybe, where it ends like this but the before is changed. It always ends like this, but maybe, maybe, beforehand, the lead-up, the all-of-this could make more sense, feel justified, feel earned. If she had planned better, known more, if the inevitability of herself were tweaked, just a bit. Maybe there’s a version of this somewhere out there, some aborted history, a scrapped first-draft, where the dramatic irony remained intact, and she also made the right decision. In the beforehand. Maybe she does the right thing, the important thing, the only thing. Somewhere, somewhen, somehow: there’s a version of this story where Missy gets to fuck herself and the Doctor at the same time.

And it would go like this.

 

 

 

The TARDIS - no, not the TARDIS, that doesn’t make any sense - and when did she start thinking of the Doctor’s TARDIS as “The” TARDIS? The 70s, maybe. She’s digressing, but she’s also dying, so please be patient -

       The Master’s TARDIS, on this ship. A different continuity. Bill less obviously dead,

(She’s wanted them crying more than once but not here, not like this. Not when she’s down in a ditch, petticoats all muddy, and they’re probably dramatically bleeding out in no-man’s-land while quoting human poetry, or some such nonsense. There’s no crying in baseball.)

the Master less obviously cruel, the Doctor even more unaware of their relative experience of time when it comes to people dying below their feet. The Master’s TARDIS. Dimly-lit, accent lighting, very chic. All three of them have plans, maybe one might work. Doesn’t matter. Her, himself, and them

 

                                                                          Oh, she really is dying, isn’t she  
                                                               (Maybe)

 

She kisses the Doctor first: she wants what she was to be jealous. She wants his pent-up misdirected anger, his self-loathing, the furious unwanted love. The pressure, the spite, the ashamed arousal. And she wants the Doctor to be, what: not surprised, but maybe confused? Gentle, she wants them to be gentle.

                                         She’s never wanted them gentle before, what is tha  
                                                      t, what does it mean, if she doesn’t die here:  
                                                                              who is she about to turn into?

In the Master’s TARDIS, with accent lighting, she kisses the Doctor on the mouth, and after a nanospan of hesitation, they kiss back. Softly, gently. She bites down on their lower lip, but not with intent to hurt; her hands are light on their chest, feeling their hearts beating. The Master is watching. Sneering. She flips him a two-fingered salute over her shoulder, and kisses the Doctor again, and enjoys the look in their eyes when she pulls away. It’s unknowable, unnameable. She turns

She turns around, and the Master is watching. Beckoning. She kisses him too, but not like how she kissed the Doctor. Cold, rough, a firmly-worded mental suggestion that he just _fuck_ her, already. The line between them is thin, but she’s stronger than him, stronger and older and better and when the walls come down, she _wins_. He winds up on the floor with a grunt and an erection. If he thinks she’s interested in touching his weird, human-shaped penis, he’s even more delusional than she remembers.

She turns around, and the Doctor is watching. The Doctor might also have weird, human-shaped genitals, but if it would make them happy

 

                    Hurry it up, this is one last wank before dying, not some leisurely session in the vault

 

The Doctor is taking their clothing off. The Master is also taking his clothing off. Missy is immediately, magically naked. Time never matters and it matters less in a fantasy,

so,

           there’s a body in front of her and a body behind her. She faces the Doctor: she wants to see them. She wants them to see her with her back turned  
and she wants him-that-she-was behind her, because she’s assuming he knows what to do

[She falls back with a gasp onto the cold, wet ground; le grande morte.] And then back again, feeling the death pressing in and time rushing like fish into a net, and an insistent, familiar finger sliding into her cunt. Her hands are tight on the Doctor’s waist; they’re staring down at her. She smiles, and they frown, and they kiss her. The Master reaches around her to take the Doctor’s hand

 

           shut up she’s _dying_ she’s earned the right to be self-indulgent  
and squeezes. They moan into her mouth; the Master crooks his finger; she lets go. The Doctor follows suit. The Master is still enthusiastically stroking where her clit used to be

                                   look they’re not weird when they’re _her_ human-shaped genitals. She put a lot of work into them, they’re beautiful

   , standing in the sprawl of where she’d been, the raw vulnerable insides of her curled around the raw vulnerable insides of the Doctor. Her idiot, her oldest friend, drawn close around her, all wild shifting and familiar uncertainty,                                        

                      all the unasked-for kindness  
                                    and the stupidity  
                                           and hypocrisy and beauty and home and every lie either of them have ever told and every truth they never did

 

and she smiles, and the Doctor smiles back, and she is held, she is accepted, she is loved.  
                 (The Master is still brutally finger-fucking her phantom cunt from behind, by the way)

 

[Missy comes just before the light bursts out of her; if that old wives’ tale about your next regeneration being the answer to the question you asked just before you died, then  
           , well. This next go-round will be a doozy.]


	10. Slit Thru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Master/Missy selfcest, with the Doctor passed out in the same bed that they're doing the do in. Bonus points if the Doctor wakes up partway through.

Missy knows what the Master wants. And he doesn’t know what she wants, which abstractly makes it better but practically speaking results in a fair bit of fumbling.

“You’ll have to learn eventually,” she says, sighing heavily as he scrabbles at the laces to her corset. “Take your time. Use our brain. Go on, I believe in you.”

He rolls his eyes, roughly tugging the contraption off her. “It’s not that I can’t, it’s that I don’t care.” The look on his face is a mix of arousal and disgust and fear; maybe he does know what she wants, after all. 

The bit lip, the coquettish squirm, and then she has him pinned down, knee to crotch and his wrists in her hands, held over his head. She kisses his beard, heaves her chest melodramatically against his. The one cock left between them now predictably hard. This incarnation never did have any self-restraint.

“D'you wanna fuck me?” She asks conversationally.

He looks like he wants to kill her. She tries not to be too overwhelmingly turned-on. “D'you want me to _make love_ to you?” he spits out. A heavy glance tossed towards the passed-out, potentially mildly-drugged body of Dr Who sprawled out next to them.

Yes, sorry, she probably should have mentioned this - they _are_ fucking on top of Thete. Just like old times. Kind of.

“Want me to kiss you? Hold you? Tell you what a good girl you are? Is that what gets you off, these days?” He thrusts his hips up, erection bonking awkwardly against her inner thigh.

No. Maybe. Not telling. She slips her hand between them, flicks him in the balls with her carefully-manicured fingernails. He hisses, grins, digs his fingers harder into her hips in response.

“Mostly we cry and then he lets me fuck him up the arse with a ridiculously large dildo,” she says, shifting to center herself over his erection. Just vaguely, a tease: he likes it quick and dirty, likes to feel in charge. So the opposite of that, then. She tightens her hand on his wrists.

“Gendered pronouns? In _this_ threesome?” The Doctor doesn’t move, doesn’t open his

sorry

their eyes as they speak. Face oddly smooth and youthful, like the little girl they’d been.

“Grandpa’s awake,” the Master says, thrusting harder.

“This isn’t the Academy, we aren’t rutting with our illegally-loomed clones. Have some self-respect, man.” She gives up on restraining him, thumps him on the chest, pulls away.

“Not much better, though.”

“And I’m dying, that’s…probably not ever happened before.” The Doctor flinches out a half-breath of regeneration energy, shakes themself back into place.

Don’t say that don’t say that don’t, _don’t_ \- she’s not crying. She reaches over and taps them gently on that private, vulnerable spot betwixt limp dick and belly. “Wanna fuck me? With me? Put the past to bed, as it were?” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Mmm. No. Not touching that. You broke my heart, you know.”

She knows. She knows. She strokes the Doctor’s hair with one hand and twists the Master’s left nipple with the other. Hard enough to hurt, like he secretly enjoys it. Her leg pulled up hard between his thighs.

“Why _is_ he here, anyway.”

“Because I want them to be. Because it’s comforting and nice and more than a bit erotic. Am I right, Doctor? Not sure if it’s a cuckold thing or peeping in on my masturbation session, but it is. Sexy.”

The Doctor stretches, still shaking off flickers of light. “That’s your word for it, yes. Let me know if you need me to participate. Don’t have a ton of extra energy left over to devote to genitals.” They smile, a swallowed-down, half-afraid thing, and then move to rest their hand on Missy’s waist. And they stare the Master down.

“Been here before,” they say softly. “Weird, I know. They’ll always win out in the end, that’s how it works. Like touching your own death. But if you want it - and I think you want it - just go with it. Let her fuck you.” Voice gone raspy on that last part, unacceptably so, hoarse and thickly Scottish, and it does something for her and evidently something for him, since that’s where she’s able to knuckle against his arsehole and tug his cock and get an unrestrained yelp of pleasure in response.

“I’d finger you but. Manicure.” She waves her nails in his face. The Doctor huffs out a laugh and then stills, hand remaining on her waist. Not grabbing, not urging, just – there.

“So can I, ah. How to put this delicately. May I fuck you?”

“Nah,” she says. “Just. Grind on me. Or whatever. C'mon, quick with it, just like when we were young, there you go.”

He shudders, scrunches his face up, comes gracelessly with his cock against her knee. Spent in his pants, at least it’s relatively tidy. She pats him on his softening genitalia, then backs away.

“Good?” the Doctor mumbles. Not sleepy, they never sleep, but semi-calculatedly elsewhere. She slides next to them, neck to neck, snuggled under their arm.

“Had worse,” she says. She closes her eyes. Counts to ten, then a hundred. Somewhere in there the Master leaves. The door slammed behind him, of course.

“Out of your system?”

“Never. Not really.” She curls her body up, pulls closer. All that dying buzz, the nausea and jitter of an impending regeneration, the thing-they-are spilling out.

“Know the feeling. Sorta.” The Doctor kisses her gently on her forehead, keeps her near. Skin to skin, a variety of half-undone buttons and buckles. Sloppy, but contact nonetheless. She breathes in, and they flow out, and they both pretend to sleep.

“Could you maybe…” she mumbles, lips presses against their neck. “Like. Not asking for a miracle here, but I didn’t have an orgasm, and it’d be super if you could, just.” Fuck her real hard, ram her into the mattress, etc.

The Doctor sighs. Like _fine,_ like _alright_. They shove their hand between her legs, thumb homing in on her clit, pointer and middle finger sliding in behind. They don’t look at each other. She tries to squirm in only a theatrical, intentional way. The Doctor pulls a quick, perfunctory orgasm out of her; she does not cry out. Just like old times, then.

She settles back down against them, head tucked under their chin. Their breathing never steadies, but she does her best version of a convincing snore. A respectable amount of hours pass before she pulls herself up out of bed, tidies herself up, and walks away.


End file.
